The Darkness of Light
by hpotter225
Summary: Nicholas Potter, the Potters' only son, went missing at age two.
1. Chapter 1 Discipline

Disclaimer: Not my characters, not my world—that belongs to J.K. Rowling.

**The Darkness of Light**

_Chapter 1 – Discipline_

"You are a failure, and you will always be a failure, and you will never be worthy of my name."

A young boy of eleven years lay face down on the ground, clutching the drying mud in his palms, a steady beat pulsing through his chest. His left eye was swollen shut, a deep purple hue, dripping into the puddle beneath his face. Beside him, inches from his left hand, was a wand—12 inches of mahogany, with a Griffin's core—and it was crusted with dirt and blood.

"Father…" began the boy, struggling to look up, despite the tightness in his neck. "I think I can feel it now. I think it's coming soon."

His father, a ghostly white man with flowing black hair down to his shoulders, shook his head, eyes dark and downcast. "You're weak. It will never come. I've been born a Squib. Your mother will be so disappointed."

The boy's face blanched, and he clamped his mouth shut, summoning his last reserve of energy to roll over and look upwards. He let the caked mud fall from his eyelids, and then opened them, and said, "Father, I'm sorry—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. But I can do Potions, still, right? Maybe I can be a Potions Master."

"Potions…" The man sneered. "Like that bastard, Severus Snape? No son of mine will follow in his footsteps. No, you will live with your disgrace, and you will learn to live alone, and perhaps a Mudblood might befriend you."

A breath caught in the boy's throat, and he stiffened. "What about Marcus?"

A pause, and the man kneeled, a few feet from the boy, and peered into his face. "Marcus hates you. He hates that you have no magic. He will never, ever be your friend. You have no friends, and you never will."

And the man stood, and he shook his head, and then turned and, with a pop, disappeared.

A steady wind swept through the clearing, and the trees surrounding it swayed to a mournful song. Darkness peered down upon the child, sniffing behind its ears, nudging it, inhaling its breath.

_Little boy, close your eyes. The darkness has you now

* * *

_

The stone walls of the room leaned inward slightly and out of their cracks seeped webs of wet moss. Beneath the floating dust in a shaft of moonlight lay a small cot, black, an inch thick and nearly shredded beyond recognition. There was nothing else, save the solid oak door with a single barred opening at the floor and no handle. Nothing else, save the boy in the corner and the stack of books at his side. Nothing else, save the streaks of red on the wall by the spot where his head and shoulder were pressed.

Tears were weak. His father had said so, last year, during his first lesson in humility. And he had learned it well, shedding only a single tear when his friend Marcus burned Edward, the stuffed bear his mother had given him for his second birthday. But his father had shown him the truth afterwards. Edward meant nothing, since he was not a Magic stuffed bear. He was just a plain old Mudblood bear, just like him.

The boy reached up with a tiny hand and pressed a grimy finger to his head. An icy shock exploded in his skull, and he jerked back from the wall, clutching his hands in front of him. His body shivered, and he slowly opened his hands. A drop of blood fell from the tip of his finger and plinked on the cold floor, echoing through the silence of the room. The boy quickly spun towards the opening in the door and scrambled backwards into the darkest corner, clutching his bloodied hand against his chest.

A few moments later the boy's shoulders relaxed and he lifted his hand upwards into the shaft of moonlight from the opening in the ceiling. Timidly, he lowered his finger to the wall, and he pressed it down and pulled it back, leaving a small circle behind. He pressed it again and pulled down, leaving a streak of red behind—and again, another streak, and again, and nothing.

He dipped his finger again, and scratched out the rest of his drawing.

It was a word—his name—"Nicholas."

A rap sounded on the door. The boy spun, and stood, and straightened his shoulders, and stared at his feet.

"Father," he said, as the door swung open and a tall man stepped into the room.

"Any progress today?" asked the man.

"No sir," said the boy quietly. "I have finished the books, and I have tried all of the curses, but none of them worked. There may have been a tingling in my leg, once, when I tried the knee splitting hex, but it may have been my imagination."

"That is a disappointment. What is the incantation for the marrow boiling curse?"

"_Vomica Subium_."

"The wand movement?"

"Palm faces downwards, arm extended. Wrist pops down, little finger pulls in to arc the wand tip, then a jab at the target."

"The flaying curse?"

"_Excorcium_. Shoulder extended, forearm across chest, wand tip on neck, and then a full swing outwards towards the opponent. Incantation should finish just as the wand is pointed straight and turns down sharply to the caster's side."

"And a fog shield?"

The boy scrunched his face, flipping through the books in his head. "That's not in there."

Wrong answer. His father's eyes snapped wide open and his lips slammed into a tight line. And his hand swung up and a black streak flew out from the folds of his night colored sleeve. It was a practiced movement, the way his elbow made a perfect tight circle in front of the separation in his ribs, and the way his wrist twisted towards his neck and his fingers extended straight, wand stuck atop his middle finger and thumb and held in place under his index finger. His chest dropped, and his front knee bent, and a red and blue light seeped from the sides of his wand, spun, and shot forward like an arrow.

The boy kneeled on one knee and placed his right hand flat on the cold stone, eyes still trained on the floor. The light struck and the world went dark and a door slammed and silence entered the room.

Screaming was weak. His father had said so, last month, during a lesson in humiliation. And he didn't scream any more. He didn't feel pain anymore—wouldn't feel pain any more—couldn't feel pain any more. Screaming meant you lost, meant you gave up, meant you broke. Breaking was unacceptable. It meant you couldn't carry your burden, and he had a burden, and he had to carry it. At the very least, he could be strong in his humility.

The boy dropped his other knee and hand to the ground, and he sat back on his feet.

Strength. His father was strong. He could control his Magic, and he could control his emotions, his movements, his thoughts. But the boy, the Squib, the detestable Mudblood had no magic to control, so he could not be as strong. He could focus on emotions, and on movements, and on perfecting them, at least, to be strong like his father. He would be strong.

He pressed his thumb into the wetness on his skull, and he grimaced, and he bit his tongue, and he clenched his other fist.

And he was silent.

* * *

It had been three months—June, if he had counted correctly—and the boy was standing flat against the wall opposite the door, comfortably groping the small square patch of moss in his right hand and the long strip ending in a little dip in his left. The dust was moving more quickly now—there was a draft from the opening in the door. That meant his father was coming.

There was a click, and a creak, and a two footsteps, and then breathing. Out it went, then in, and a pause, and then out, then in, and another pause.

"Hogwarts opens in two months, and you have shown no signs of Magic," said his father.

His heart pounded. This was it—the time had come. If he showed no signs of Magic before school started, he would have to officially register himself as a Squib with the Ministry of Magic. It would set in stone his insignificance in the world.

"I am ready," said the boy, head down.

There was breathing again, and no rustling of a cloak, no arm cutting through the air. Just breathing, and nothing else.

"I am not ready," said his father. "And I think you have lied to me. You have performed Magic, and you are not telling me."

"Father, I have not. I would not lie to you."

The breathing sped up, and it deepened. He was breathing through his nose now—his mouth was closed. His body always tensed when he breathed through his nose, and something happened after.

The boy braced himself.

"No son of mine is a Squib. You have lied. _Legilimens_."

And a beast tore into his mind. It was furry and four legged and crouched low to the ground, long front fangs hanging through tight lips and a torn black nose pressed to the ground. It sniffed, and it ran.

It ran straight, and it pounced and sunk its teeth into a pink strand of flesh, and then he saw Edward.

Edward was alive again! The burning hadn't killed him. And he was happy. But he shouldn't be happy. Edward was a Mudblood bear, and he didn't deserve to be alive. But how was he alive? He was dead. What kind of Magic was this?

And he saw himself hugging Edward. His mother was standing behind him with a small smile on her face, and she was looking down at him, eyes raised and—pink at the edges? Her eyes were pink at the edges. She had been crying.

In the back was his father, arms crossed, standing straight and tall, a tower of pure strength, cold and unmoving. His face was blank, as always, and his eyes were locked on Edward. He hated the bear, the boy could tell, from the very beginning. He should have hated the bear, too.

The beast was back, and it pounced forward, swiping the next strand with its claws.

Marcus stepped out of the boy's front door and walked slowly across the lawn, wand bouncing in his hand. He stopped in front of… him? And Marcus stuck out his hand.

"Let me see the bear," said Marcus.

"Why?" The imitation boy pulled Edward closer to his chest—hadn't he done that?

"Because I want him. I have Magic, and you're a Squib, so you have to listen to me."

"But … He's Edward, and my mommy gave him to me. Just don't hurt him." The imitation boy slowly let his grasp loosen, and he extended his bear out to Marcus.

Marcus snatched it and threw it to the ground, stomping on it with a dirty shoe.

"NO!" screamed the imitation boy as he lunged forward.

But he was too late. Marcus's wand was out, his arm pointing straight downwards, and he had already muttered the spell.

Edward lit, and Edward burned.

Across the lawn, the shades behind the lower living room window fluttered and fell into place, steady again.

The boy remembered. He had felt rage—unacceptable—and he had felt sadness—unacceptable—and he had felt betrayal. But he had learned better now. He learned to calm his emotions. And he did.

But this beast was intrusive. This beast was ripping apart the pink in his mind, and it shouldn't be here. His mind was his own, not the beast's. It had no right to touch his mind—he had trained it so well.

The surface of his mind rumbled. Something beneath it was angry, and it did not like the beast either. The beast did not seem to notice.

His arms began to shake, and his body bucked. The beast must **die**. He hated the beast. He wanted it dead.

And then he breathed, and commanded the pink to wrap around the beast, and to strangle it. It did, but the beast was quick and slipped through it, lunging towards the next strand.

"No," said the boy, and the ground of his mind split.

Somewhere he was screaming, somewhere he was crying, somewhere he was scraping his bloody fingernails against the cold stone floor of his room. But he could only focus on the wave of Darkness tearing through the confines of his mind, flooding his thoughts, crashing against the walls of his head.

It would not stop, and it had no limit—depthless Darkness raged in his mind, sinking its claws into everything it could reach—which was everything in his mind.

The Darkness seemed to hate the beast too, however, so maybe the boy did like it. And the Darkness could tell that he liked it; it sank its claws in deeper, and wrapped itself around the beast, and it _looked_ at him.

He nodded.

The beast was hurled from his mind, and he snapped back into his eyes.

He could see again.

* * *

Well, that's the first chapter. I'm sure it's confusing—sorry. This is only the first character. Next chapter will introduce another, and then we're off to Hogwarts.

What do you think?


	2. Chapter 2 How it starts

Disclaimer: Not my characters, not my world—that belongs to J.K. Rowling.

**The Darkness of Light**

_Chapter 2 – How it starts_

They had been out staring at the same bed of wet leaves for an hour, but nothing had moved. Colin blew a strand of blond hair away from his eyebrows and leaned back along the massive rock on which he was situated. He was bored.

"If that Kneazle doesn't show his face in the next five minutes," said Colin, laying his head on his hands, "I'll dive down that hole, grab him by his scruffy neck, and haul the git out myself."

The girl next to him snapped her head towards him and glared. "Quiet! I think that rock just moved, and now you've gone and scared it again."

"Here Kneazle Kneazle Kneazle," said Colin, grinning and twining his lock of hair around his fingers. "I promise we won't eat you. Really, I promise."

The girl sighed and shook her head. "Really, Colin? You've got the patience of a two year old."

Colin sat up. "If that's what it takes. Can we leave now?"

"Yes, we can leave. But don't expect me to look over any of your essays."

"Aww, come on Lisa, don't be like that. I'm just playing, of course."

Lisa rolled her eyes and stood up and wiped off the dirt from her knees and the hem of her skirt. "Yes, I know. You're always playing. How could I ever forget?"

Colin grinned, showing the full set of his upper teeth. "Impossible. Can we try my way now?"

"Absolutely not," said Lisa. "No."

"It's not dangerous, really, and we can clean it up," said Colin, giving his best attempt at puppy dog eyes.

Lisa snorted. "And that's supposed to convince me? _Really_?"

Colin pouted. "You're no fun. It's just one word. Well, two if you clean up."

"No. I'm not doing it. You can do it—when I'm not here."

Colin stopped smiling. "You know I can't. No need to rub it in."

"Don't give me that rubbish, Colin, we both know you're faking so that your parents will do everything for you."

Colin was silent, and started walking down the path they had come in on. Lisa's footsteps started behind him a moment later and she fell into step beside him.

"Oh please, not this again. I'm not putting up with this pity game of yours. Even if you couldn't do it, you don't deserve pity."

Leaves crunched beneath their feet and they occasionally squinted as they passed through a break in the trees and the sun shined through onto them. A gust of wind blew a wave of dry leaves across the path in front of them, and a stream bubbled somewhere to their left.

"There's your house. I have some errands to run, so I think I'll get going," said Colin flatly. "Do I need to walk you to the door?"

Lisa took a deep breath and let it out, stopping and turning to face Colin. "Colin…" she said.

Colin stopped, but didn't turn, staring up the hill to Lisa's house. "Nothing," he said. "I'm just busy tonight, so I have to go early."

"You are obviously upset."

"You would know," said Colin, and he began walking briskly along the edge of the trees towards the road.

His face tightened as he heard Lisa running to catch up with him.

"Colin, wait," she said, reaching a hand out and grabbing his elbow.

He stopped and turned. "Look, I had fun, okay? But I have to run some errands and you can't come along."

"My mother made dinner, roast beef and mashed potatoes, just for you. And the guest room is all set up. Mum had me do it this morning."

"Plans change. Let go," said Colin, turning back towards the road.

Lisa bit her lower lip. "Okay, Colin," and she let go.

Colin shoved his hands into his pockets and walked away.

* * *

The shadow from his house had already stretched across the street when Colin began up the walkway. He looked left and right at the neighbor's houses briefly, wondering what it looked like to them when he crossed the threshold. There was a charm on his house, like on all Magical homes in Muggle neighborhoods, that hid it from non-Magical eyes.

He pushed the front door open and immediately headed up the stairs. But not before his mother's voice pierced and destroyed any semblance of existing silence and peace.

"Colin, is that you? Why aren't you are Lisa's?" said his mother.

Colin stopped and looked down to see his mother's head of bushy brown hair pass by the crack between floors at the top of the stairs.

"I'm tired, so I left early, and you said you needed bread so I picked some up on the way back," said Colin, and he went down a few steps and held out the loaf of bread he had picked up.

His mother took it, but didn't move from the bottom of the steps. "You were supposed to sleep over at Lisa's. Did you tell her parents that you left? They probably made dinner for you."

Colin shrugged. "No, not really."

His mother shook her head and placed her hands on her hips. "You call them right now and apologize."

"Yes, mother," said Colin, turning.

"Now."

"YES, mother," Colin repeated, and turned at the top of the stairs and walked to his room.

He closed the door behind him and then leaned back into it. His bed was a mess, just as he left it in the morning, and a pile of clothes still lay in the corner next to his full hamper and packed bureau. The one light in his room, a gaudy old chandelier in the dead center of the ceiling was off, but was still reflecting dull yellow strands of light over the floor.

Colin reached down and pulled his wand from its holster, and held it up to the sunlight, laying it flat in the palm of his hand. He used to blame his wand when he couldn't learn Charms during his first and second years at Hogwarts. But in his third year, Professor Chang pulled him aside and explained that Wizards and Witches were born with different Magic levels, and he had a little less than average. He would just have to deal with it, she told him.

The mostly full bookshelf directly across from the door towered over him, mocking him with all of the knowledge of what he couldn't do.

Colin grabbed the handle of his wand and flicked it at a book. "_Wingardium Leviosa_."

The book mildly shuddered and began lazily to stand, but decided against it and fell back.

Colin hurled his wand across the room, and it clanked against the wall and fell behind his bed. He didn't really need it anyways. It wasn't much use to him.

Knock, knock.

"Just a second," said Colin, scrambling to his feet and pulling down on the bottom of his shirt. He opened the door.

"Have you called yet?" said his mother, hands on her hips in the doorway.

"I'll do it now," said Colin, looking down.

His mother moved to the side and Colin walked past her and into the next room—a cozy study room with a few plushy loveseats and a huge fireplace. He grabbed a handful of Floo-powder from the mantle and tossed it down.

"The Potters."

And he was sucked into the abyss and coughed out into Lisa's living room, landing flat on his face on the thick gray carpet they had bought when they discovered his unfortunate lack of balance.

"Hello Colin," said a woman's voice. "So kind of you to join us."

Colin turned his head to see a pair of comfortable slippers a few inches away. "Hello Mrs. Potter. Sorry about running off like that. I had an errand to run."

"Lisa's at the table still. Your dinner's getting cold."

"Thanks. I'll—er—go eat, then?"

"I'd be offended if you didn't."

"Right." Colin stood up, pounded the coal from his pants, and made his way to the Potter's dining room.

Lisa was sitting across the table and glaring at him. "You're a prat."

"And you're just perfect," said Colin, sitting down at the plate that had already been prepared for him.

"Could you be nice, for once?" said Lisa, frowning.

Colin put down his fork and looked up. "Could you understand, for once?"

"Understand what, Colin?" said Lisa, sighing. "Your Magic? Does it really upset you that much? There are more important things, you know."

"It's so easy for you to say that," said Colin a little louder than he intended. He quieted down to normal. "You're powerful. I feel like I'm missing an arm. Sure, I can cast some spells, but there's only so much I can do. You can do anything you feel like."

"But that doesn't matter. It's not like I go around spelling everything around me all day." Lisa shrugged. "Sure, Magic is a big part of my life, but it's mostly from the convenience of Magical artifacts around the house, and from just seeing it around me. It doesn't matter so much that I can do it."

Colin fumbled with his fork and ate another bite. "You wouldn't say that if you couldn't do Magic."

"But you _can_ do Magic, Colin. You're just making too big of a deal about this."

"No," said Colin firmly, locking eyes with Lisa. "And I promise you this: I will get more powerful."

Lisa's eyes widened. "What?"

"You heard me. I'm not going to sit around and be weak. Doing that makes me weak, and I will not be weak."

"Messing with Magic is dangerous. You can't do this," said Lisa, tilting her head to the side and pursing her lips.

Colin smirked. "What are you going to do, tell my mother?"

"I'll do that, and tell the whole Hogwarts staff, and stun you if I have to. You could kill yourself. No wizard in history has ever increased his Magic levels without making a significant sacrifice. Most died. No one ever succeeded and was happy."

Colin smiled darkly. "Except Voldemort."

Lisa gasped. "Colin!"

"What? You know it's true. He found a way."

"He also destroyed his soul in the process! And he killed so many people. He killed my grandparents!"

Colin rolled his eyes. "Don't worry, Lisa, I'm not going to study his battle tactics. But you have to admit he did succeed in increasing his Magic levels."

"That is not the point."

"It is the point. I'm going to find out how he did it, whether you help me or not."

"Help you?" said Lisa, jaw dropping. "You want me to help you research how Voldemort increased his Magic levels? You want me to help you _imitate _my grandparent's _murderer_?"

"It's not that serious, really," said Colin. "I'm not going to murder anyone, I promise."

"You. Could. Die."

"Stop being so dramatic," said Colin, rolling his eyes. "You never take any risks."

"I happen to like being _alive_," said Lisa pointedly.

Colin picked up his empty plate and brought it over to the counter, placing it in the sink and watching as the soapy water in the bottom jumped up and began scrubbing. "Well, don't worry about it. You can go work on your homework and studies and be the perfect straight-A student. I have other problems."

"I'm worrying," said Lisa.

"No need," said Colin, flashing a grin. "You know me."

"That's what I'm worried about."

Colin grinned, and splashed the contents of sink onto Lisa's blouse, and their conversation was quickly forgotten.

* * *

Almost all of the main characters have been introduced, and the plot's just getting started. It'll pick up soon.

What do you think?

Please review!


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